He’d timed it neatly. Otto held Barby’s chair. They were avidly curious.
Kit said sadly, “Toni doesn’t want to take the present I brought her. See?” She tried to retain the box now but he seized it, opened it with a sweep, raised the slender golden chain. “Beauty to the beauty. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Most beautiful moonstone for most beautiful woman.”
Barby didn’t like that. The fullness of her painted mouth grew perceptibly smaller. She doubted her wisdom now of exchanging Kit for a refugee. But Otto had absolutely no reaction to the stone. He might have echoed Duck’s, “Jeeze, that’s purty.” No other expression crossed his face.
Barby laughed a little. “Well, if she doesn’t want it, Kit, I’m willing. It’s gorgeous.”
Kit said, “It’s not for you.” The game of alcoholism could let you get away with abruptness impossible in sobriety. “Not for you, Barby. For my beautiful Toni.”
Otto asked, “Why do you refuse it, Toni? It’s a beautiful thing. If Kit wants you to have it—”
“Had it set specially today.”
“You mustn’t refuse it.” Was there note of warning under Otto’s amiability. “Why do you refuse?”
Toni touched her lips. “In my country—”
Otto stated, “Customs are not the same in this country, Toni. The Prince will not object to your accepting it.”
“I wanted to give something beautiful to beautiful Toni.” Kit was pleased with the scene. Presenting it before Otto, she couldn’t hide it out; they’d see it on Riverside, know from whom it came. “If you won’t take it—” He swung it gently, let it fall into his palm.
Toni tried to smile. “If it means much to you, Kit—”
“Put it on.”
Her hands trembled; she put it on. The fire in the opal lay against the cold crimson of her bodice.
Barby’s eyes were narrow with covetousness. She drank, said, “Let’s dance this, Kit.” Her body was hot as nakedness against him; her voice languored. “You didn’t ever give me anything like that, Kit. Wasn’t I beautiful to you?”
He didn’t like her. He held her more closely. “You used to be the most beautiful woman I ever saw,” he blurred.
“No more?”
“Toni’s beautiful.” The more seeds of discord he could sow, the faster would he reap the whirlwind. If there were evidence against Toni, Barby would now ferret it out. He was magnanimous, “I’ll give you something some day.” A kick in the hot pants. “Soon?”
“Soon’s you’re beautifulest.” He stumbled over his own feet, stepped on hers, backed into strangers. She would terminate the dance. She did. They returned to the table.
Content was in his chair. She grimaced, “Where have you been keeping yourself, Mr. McKittrick? Lotte was mad as pepper to have that good dinner go to waste. So I kept José to eat your share. He came up to rehearse at five.”
Kit said what sounded like, “I wenna Washnnon.” He didn’t want Content in his way tonight.
“You evidently had a wonderful time.” She was frigid.
He pushed her down in the chair; his voice was thick as sorghum. “Don’t go way.” He hollered for more chairs. “We’re all gonna drinka most beautiful woman.” He glared. “Where’s José? He’s gonna drinka Toni too. Whether he likes it or not.”
Toni was sick. She sat like a statue, the moonstone brand between her breasts. Kit let his head loll until José stood there. José reacted. He pointed. His voice quivered. “Where did you get that?”
Kit made an ugly face. “I gave it to her. That’s where.” He dared him to make something out of it.
The violinist’s face was pale as Toni’s. Unsteadily he asked, “Where did you get it?”
Kit guffawed. “Little something I picked up in Spain. Toast to Toni. Most beautiful—”
She did not drink. She stood. She said, “I am going home. Kit, you will see me home?”
He brushed past the four motionless faces. He understood the frozen scorn in Content’s, the predatory scheming of Barby’s. He didn’t understand Otto’s indifference nor José’s distillation of incredulity and despair. He weaved after the red dress, said, “Taxi.” He was satisfied to see Duck at the wheel. It was Toni who gave the address, added, “Go through the Park.” The cab nosed forward.
She said from her corner, “You can stop the act now,” and her voice anguished, “Why did you do it?”
He took a breath of fresh air. “Did the others spot me?”
“I don’t think so. Content and José weren’t there to note how pale your drinks were. Barby and Otto were not interested.” Her voice broke again. “Why did you do this, Kit?”
He knew to what she referred. “I wanted to.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer.
She asked in pain, “What do you want? Do you want to die?”
He spoke slowly. “I don’t want to die. I don’t intend to die. I want to find a man I’m looking for. I call him—Wobblefoot. Do you know him?”
She said, “No,” but she did. She was lying and she was uneasy, not in the lie, in the mention of the deformity? She was afraid as he had been afraid. Which one did she fear? If the Prince left the apartment would the cane keep his withered old legs from a quiver and lurch? If Dr. Skaas could leave the wheel chair would he walk as a man unused to walking? Otto had the breath of a killer but he preferred women; did he brace himself before he went on duty? Would a hypo that put a sadistic lust into his loins also cause him to stumble drunkenly? Or was the Wobblefoot an unknown, someone whose paid underlings attended to the preliminaries, who appeared only for the kill? He had been that in Spain; he had not soiled his hands in torture; he had merely given the orders.
Toni had lifted her fingers to the clasp, spoke definitely, “This will not help you find him.”
His laughter was soft, mocking. “I know better than that, Toni.” She dropped her hands as he continued, “You saw José recognize it. There will be others.”
She asked, not looking at him, “Where did you get it?”
“In Spain. From a fellow named Gottlieb. You ever hear of a fellow named Gottlieb?”
She answered without inflection, “It is not an unusual name in some countries.”
The cab stopped at the apartment house but she didn’t stir. Duck was watching in the mirror; he had orders. But he couldn’t listen.
Suddenly she stretched out her hands, pleaded, “Kit, believe me, it is not wise I wear this. If you please, take it back.”
“It won’t mean danger to you, will it?”
“No, not that, but—”
“No.” That was the finality. He moved nearer to her. “Believe me, Toni, I do want you to have it. I want you to wear it. I wasn’t acting when I said you were the most beautiful woman. I meant that. I might have said more. I might have said—”
She protested, “No,” but he kissed her. He might have held a cotton doll, kissed wax. He released her. He was chagrined. “I’m sorry. I’m always doing something to annoy you.”
She said, “You do not annoy me.” She touched his hand. “You are a fine man, Kit. Det says you are that. It is just—only this—I have no place for that.”
He said, “I’m still sorry.”
Duck stood on the frozen walk, the cab door open. He knew the end of an amorous evening declined. He followed to the apartment. “I’m gonna step in and warm up a bit.”
He had his orders. He sat on the lower step, a stolid orangutan, until Kit returned. There was something reassuring in not being alone on the dim staircase.
6
CONTENT’S YELLOW HEAD wasn’t on the other pillow. Too early as yet but he missed it there. A letter from his mother. The innocent, urging him to join them in Palm Beach, no idea of the turmoil in which he was involved. The rooms held the whisper of loneness. He mixed a heavy drink. He deserved one after the wash he’d sloshed all evening. She should be coming in any time now. There was plenty to talk over with her. Content was a nice k
id. He wouldn’t think about Toni Donne; she wasn’t for him. He wouldn’t be like old Chris, hankering for something he couldn’t have.
If he weren’t a sentimental boob Irishman, he wouldn’t think any more of Toni than of Elise. They were both working for the same guy, their human emotions were accountable to woman weakness. They weren’t worth a pennyworth of Content. Once he’d thought of her as only a giddy number. There was more to her than that. There was a hard little core of right in her, the same urge for justice that had sent him to Spain four years ago. It wasn’t merely her love for Ab that spurred her; she’d been as urgent about Louie. She’d become definitely comforting; a good thing with Barby selling herself cheap. Content hadn’t been bearing malice; she knew the fester under Barby’s beautiful skin. She hadn’t wanted to tell him Friday afternoon; he’d forced statement of fact and repudiated her for complying. Tonight corroborated it. Barby had come clambering off her virginal high horse fast enough with the glint of a bauble in the offing. The funny thing was it didn’t hurt a bit. Whereas—he wouldn’t think of the ache wrenching his heart over Toni Donne.
He didn’t like being here alone. His nerves were prickling. He didn’t like the ordeal that lay ahead, the knowledge of its immediacy. When the Prince saw Toni’s pendant, word would go swiftly to the Wobblefoot. The end would begin. They would believe what he had insinuated, that the goblets were at hand. They would strike before he could desecrate the cups further. They did not know that he was not responsible for the mutilation, that Gottlieb, cornered, had seized a priceless weapon. The desecration could account for Josh’s horrified despair tonight; a man who could create beauty in music would respect all beauty.
In what form the trap would be set, he didn’t know. That was why he was restless, straining for the click of Content’s key in the front lock. He believed the invitation for his destruction would come from Toni. That was why the sadness for her lay within him.
He didn’t fear. He checked the Luger again; the other gun was shipshape, it didn’t leave him. The Luger hadn’t been tampered with; Elise would have a hard time doing any mischief now when he was out. Lotte would keep the girl in constant view since the letter episode. But he didn’t like the feel of being alone. He poured another drink, held it. Elise could drug a decanter. She hadn’t tonight but it might come any time now. A drugged highball. Lotte working over him, Elise calling an ambulance that waited. He was a sweaty fool. Conjuring cinema plots. The trouble was that fictional plots weren’t fantastic any more. The details were in the evening newspaper long before a picture could be filmed.
Elise could drug Lotte, a bit of powder in her coffee cup. He wasn’t as safe as he thought. And Content ought to be here by now. He didn’t like her lateness. Something could have happened. Duck ought to be taking care of her instead of him. He could protect himself. He walked from his room to the living room, slitted the Venetian blinds. He looked far down into the dark empty street below. He should go to bed. When the ordeal came, he must be rested, his trigger finger steady.
He couldn’t sleep if he went to bed. His mind would continue to prowl. Not since he was a child had he invaded the maids’ wing. Maybe he could relax if he knew for certain that no one waited in that dark corridor. Maybe he wouldn’t keep thinking he heard sounds there. A torch was always on the coat closet shelf. It hadn’t been moved. He flashed it under his hand, crossed the kitchen without sound. He swung the door a faint, noiseless crack. There was light, the dimmest gray of light, where his eye peered. Whispers just inside the door leading to the back hall. Light must be from that source; none was in the corridor.
He didn’t breathe; he thrust the torch into his pocket, not daring the click that would extinguish it. His hand on his gun, he moved his ear to the crack. He could distinguish.
“Quiet. She will hear you.”
The other whisper came more loudly. “What have you been doing? I ask you. You have been told to search. Search well. You let this happen under your nose.”
“I tell you it was not here. I have searched his things with care. The jewel was not here. Unless he carried it in his mouth.”
“You are a fool. He is not pleased with you. There are too many mistakes.”
“You are hurting me.” A little suck of breath. “I have done all that is possible. I could not help this woman returning. He brought her here. Could I put her out? The letter—was a mistake.”
“You will make one mistake too many.”
A cry, if a cry could be whispered.
Kit swung the torch, called, “What’s going on here?” He synchronized his step into the corridor as he spoke but the light glare failed him. It caught only Elise’s terrified face. He swerved it but he saw nothing, barely heard the whish of something solid and enormous blacking out all light. As he crumpled he seemed to recognize the cheap smell of beer and perfume.
The lighted corridor glared on his eyeballs. He distinguished feet first, the frayed fringing on her bedroom slippers. His head felt as if it had been cleaved open. He touched the sticky lump under his hair, brought his hand close in front of his eyes. There was some red on the fingers but not much. It hadn’t been a sledge hammer then; there wasn’t much blood, none on the floor where he lay. Painfully, his head whirling, his stomach heaving, he pushed to his knees, straightened, leaned against the wall.
Elise held out his flashlight. There were violent streaks on her forearm. She parroted, “Are you all right now, sir? You slipped and fell.”
He stared at her without words.
She faltered, “I am sorry I disturbed you.”
He demanded, “Who was that?”
“My brother.”
“What did he want at this hour?”
“He wanted money. I didn’t have any to give him.” She rubbed her arm. “Shall I help you to your room?”
“No.” He lurched as he took the torch from her. “Get back to bed. You can’t work properly if you don’t get some sleep.”
“Yes, sir.”
He waited until she was closed in her room before advancing along the wall to try the back door. It was bolted. He weaved to the hallway, left the foyer lamp burning. The torch he carried to his room, flung it on the table. It might come in handy if he could learn how to use it. He’d have been better off without it tonight.
The bath mirror showed him a bloody fool. He washed away the traces of his idiocy, sloshed alcohol on the throbbing wound. He winced to the sting as he winced at his foolhardy, unplanned invasion of the corridor. Who had been there? Someone who’d previously been in José’s room. If he hadn’t gone out like the light, would he have heard the dreaded footfalls of the Wobblefoot? Whom had Elise been talking with? Whispering didn’t give a clue to voices, not even whether it was man or woman. If the Wobblefoot had him helpless in the corridor, would he have left him there? Yes. If he still hoped that Kit would lead him to the cups without risking the violation of American laws. Whoever had been there hadn’t wanted his identity known to Kit. Could it have been Pierre? Whoever had been there must have made quick exit by means of the freight elevator. If Pierre were one of them, he could bring anyone up, stand ready for the retreat. In the night quietness, the passenger elevator buzzer would sound from the basement. It wasn’t important who had come; what counted was that one had come. The offense was a success. The campaign had begun.
He wouldn’t lock his door tonight, not until Content came in. He slept fitfully, harried by scraps of dream. There was no bright hair on the pillow across, not even by daylight. Content hadn’t returned. The clock said nine; he hadn’t slept long enough but he couldn’t close his eyes again. His mouth tasted grim. Tramps didn’t change their habits. Personally he didn’t care but he had to take Ab’s place, watch out for her.
He might as well be on his way. Too early for Duck. He’d expected to sleep until noon. He walked to the Lexington Avenue subway, the downtown kiosk. He didn’t know where he was going or why but he couldn’t stick around the apartment. There wasn’t much he
could do until they made the next move. He got off at 59th, walked across to the Savoy Plaza coffee shop. He didn’t want to disturb Jake at this hour again, what could Jake tell him; but something might have happened to her. He called the club. He didn’t ask for the boss. He said, “Do you know whom Miss Hamilton left with last night?”
The help was unhelpful. “Naw.”
Kit said, “Find out from someone. This is McKittrick.” At Number 50 that was almost as good a name as Lepetino now.
He didn’t know if the man waked Jake or the doorman or the taxi starter. It took long enough. His information was: she went home with that violinist. Well, she knew what she was doing. She wasn’t the kid cousin now even if she still looked it. He banged down the receiver.
He wanted to see Toni. He hungered to see Toni. He could look at her even if she were not for him. He didn’t have any better excuse to offer even himself. Maybe she’d like to join the Sunday parade on Riverside. The sun was trying to shine today.
She hadn’t expected anyone. Her hair was coiled on top her head, an old-fashioned apron covered her from chin to ankles. But she didn’t look like a char.
He stammered his invitation at her as if he were a yearning sophomore.
She hesitated. “Aren’t you going to the funeral?”
He hadn’t known when; he’d forgotten; he hadn’t looked at the newspapers. He said, “Yes.”
“If you take a cab you’ll be on time. At the home.”
“You’re not going?”
Her face was motionless. “No.” She put her hand to her throat. “I didn’t know him.”
The cab raced. The service had begun. José blenched by candles and the ebon box. The two Skaases, the lashless eyeholes in Christian’s sad face; Otto’s smug boredom with the dead. Barby, lips and talons of blood against her hard shiny mourning. Rows of Hamiltons, Tavitons, Justins, more perfumed than the massed flowers. Sidney Dantone. Content? Small enough to hide behind Jake’s impeccable dark shoulders. Even Tobin there. And Prince Felix Andrassy. A yellowed hand clawing a round gold knobbed cane. His health did not keep him in the apartment if he wanted to leave it. The black suit beside him had the impassivity of a male nurse. The old one leaned heavily on the man at the conclusion of the service.
Fallen Sparrow Page 15